


Like the Gun

by wincestjel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Normal High School, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, M/M, Non-Hunter Winchesters (Supernatural), PTSD, Psychiatric Service Dog, Service Dogs, Tutor Castiel (Supernatural), Tutoring, i really don't like tagging things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-03-29 14:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19022011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestjel/pseuds/wincestjel
Summary: After a traumatic experience, Dean receives a service dog, a hundred therapists, and a type of healing he never expected.(a tutoring fic with a bit of a twist)updates every wednesday!





	1. Chapter 1

_“Dean, have you ever considered a service dog?”_ _  
__The question hung in the air, and suddenly Dean’s cold,_ freezing _. A service dog? He wasn’t_ blind _, he wasn’t_ deaf _, he wasn’t missing any limbs. What the hell would he need a dog for?_

_“It’s a possibility, you know, a service dog for psychiatric disabilities.” It’s as though she read his mind. Wait, did she? Could she?_

     Nice tits _, Dean thought, and when the therapist didn’t react, he relaxed. Fine, okay. She couldn’t read his mind, his thoughts were just predictable. Dean loosened up a little, settled back into the old sofa. It didn’t last long, because soon enough he was shooting up again._

_“Listen, lady. You’re, like, the fifth therapist I’ve seen this year. Nobody knows what to do with me. What makes you think you’re any different? What makes you think some-- some mutt will fix me?”_

_The woman, whose name Dean never bothered to remember because chances were he’d be seeing someone new in a week, smiled. Dean hated it. He wanted to get up and slap that goddamn smile right off her face. He shook his head. A dog? What the hell would a_ dog _do to help?_ __  
_Again, as though reading his thoughts, the therapist spoke up. “I’ve seen it work quite a few times, Dean. There are several ways the dog can help; let you know when your heart rate rises, ground you during times of panic, lead you to a safe place when necessary… the list goes on. I really think you should consider it.”_ __  
_“Yeah, well, you know what? Consider this,” and in a swift movement, Dean was on his feet. He gave her the finger, turned on his heel and left. The door slammed in his wake, the sound breaking through the silence of the waiting room._ __  
_The waiting room, where Bobby, family-friend-turned-guardian, sat with a magazine opened in his lap. With a sigh, his eyes found Dean and a frown tugged at his lips. “No good?”_  
_“No good. Let’s go.”_

***

     The sun floods in from the window, _blindingly_ bright, and Dean grumbles something to himself. Who the hell left the blinds open? There’s a puff of air blowing on his face every few seconds, and with a groan he turns, buries his face in the mass of fur beside him.

     “Colt, wake up. We gotta get Sammy to school,” he says, though there’s no effort made to actually do so. Sam’ll yell when it’s time to go. If it weren’t for his little brother, Dean would likely just spend the morning in bed with his dog, only getting up for walks and games of fetch or tug. He doesn’t care about school; not anymore, not with everything else going on. But he has to care for his little brother who actually has plans, _potential._

     A few minutes go by and finally, Dean rolls out of bed with a groan. Half asleep, he wanders the room and grabs an outfit off his floor--a flannel, tee-shirt and jeans that are _probably_ dirty--then heads downstairs with his shepherd at his heels as per usual. Once downstairs he gets started on coffee and feeds his dog, then runs through a few brief training drills with Colt. “Good boy,” he praises, the words a yawn and _goddammit, is the coffee seriously still brewing?_

     “Morning, Dean.” It’s Sam, somehow energetic even at this ungodly hour, somehow awake. Dean’s jealous, if he’s being honest, but he’s even more jealous of the people who don’t have to worry about being awake.

     “Morning, Sammy. Sleep okay?”

     “ _Sam._ And yeah, just fine. You ready to go?”

     “Not goin’ in today.”

     “What? Dean, you can’t cut again.”

     A sigh, and Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t want to argue, doesn’t want to fight with Sam about this like they had so often before. He looks down at his dog, who’s sitting at his side. “You’re with me, yeah, buddy?”

     The dog’s response is a whine, and the look in his eyes… God, it’s almost like he’s begging Dean to go, to be _functional._ That’s his job anyway, isn’t it? To force Dean into functionality?  
     “Fine,” a groan, spoken reluctantly. “Okay, okay. Only ‘cause you’re _both_ giving me those damn puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t say no to that.”  
     “Really?” A grin spreads across the kid’s face, and his arms are around his older brother in an instant. “I bet it was Colt. It was, wasn’t it? G’boy, Colt.” He ruffles the fur on the dog’s head.

     Finally, the damn coffee’s finished and Dean stands, pours two cups and grabs a few cereal bars from the cabinet. “Here, eat.”

      “Thanks, Mom,” Sam says with an eye roll, but pauses. Dean stiffens, and suddenly there’s a change in the air of the room. It’s tense, like Dean’s muscles and jaw. “De, I--”

     “Don’t. Just-- don’t. Eat.”

     The conversation is dropped there, after a little nod from Sam, who grabs the cereal bar and one of the cups like Dean had instructed. He brushes a hand through his hair and takes a small sip, eyes running over Dean’s outfit.

     “Didn’t you wear that yesterday?” he asks.

     “Probably,” a shrug from Dean. “C’mon, Colt.” And as he walks towards the door, coffee in hand, the dog follows right behind. Dean lets him outside, the dog running around the graveyard of old, busted up cars that is their uncle Bobby’s yard. They stay outside for a little while, until Sam’s at the door shouting for Dean to return. Goddammit, the kid always has to be on time for school, doesn’t he? A whistle, and Colt comes running back, practically skidding to a stop as he sits down in front of Dean.  
Dean grins, “atta boy. C’mon.” And together they walk back inside.

     A few minutes later, the dog’s vested and both Sam and Dean are ready to go. Dean calls out to Bobby, letting him know they’re leaving, then nods towards the car. And as he slides in, he sighs, resting his hands on the steering wheel.

     “Mornin’, baby,” he mumbles, thumb running back and forth, tracing the curves of the wheel.

     Sam rolls his eyes and shoves his brother. “If you two want a room, De, I can go.”

     “Shut up.”

     The rest of the drive is easy, familiar banter between the two. It’s like this every morning, the boys teasing each other and talking. It’s nice, it’s something Dean needs in his life. He and his brother are damn close, and he’d pick watching a movie with Sam over watching one with a friend. But he’ll never tell anybody that, _especially_ not Sam.

     Pulling up in front of the school is, as always, absolutely dreadful. He doesn’t want to get out of the car, because as soon as he does he’s stuck. There’s no getting out once he’s in. Or at least, that’s how it feels sometimes.

     “You can do it, Dean,” Sam says. His is voice soft, encouraging.

     And that’s all Dean needs to get through the day; the encouragement from his baby brother, who looks up to him like nobody else.

     “Hey, Winchester!” Dean looks up. It’s a friend, thank God, not some jackass trying to start a fight or piss him off. Benny claps him on the shoulder, and Dean gives him a little smile. He waves Sam off and takes a detour with his friend, meeting up with Charlie somewhere along the way. The three sit and talk and Dean’s _happy_ , even in a good enough mood to let Charlie give Colt a few pats on the head.

     Across the way he can see a group of girls staring, talking and it’s nothing Dean isn’t used to. It’s _welcome,_ in fact. He smiles, lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers in a wave. The girls giggle and blush and whisper amongst themselves, and with his friends’ blessings, Dean walks over.

     His arm slides around Lisa Braeden, and he grins down at her. They’ve hooked up a few times, and yeah, maybe Dean has a thing for Lisa and Lisa a thing for Dean, but Dean doesn’t _do_ relationships.

     No, Dean does his best to keep people out. He doesn’t want a repeat of what happened when he was a kid.

     There’s a point where the conversation lulls and then Dean leans in, and their lips press together, his hands finding her waist. He can’t help it, she’s damn irresistible. And then somehow, they end up in Dean’s car--him and Lisa in the back, Colt laying down in the front. School’s started so the yard is empty, as is the parking lot and-- God, there are lips on Dean’s neck and he can’t think about a damn thing other than that.

     But then Colt interrupts. Dean’s heart is racing, and the damn dog can’t always tell the difference between adrenaline and anxiety. He can’t get to Dean because the seat’s in the way so he whines, chin resting on the back of the seat. Lisa pauses, Dean groans.  
     “I’m okay, Colt,” he says, then combs a bit of hair back from Lisa’s eyes. “Why’d you stop?”

     “I don’t like when the dog watches. It’s weird, Dean.”

     “He ain’t watching.”

     “Look at him! He’s staring right at us.”

     Dean sighs, gently nudging Lisa off so he can deal with his dog. He leans over and runs his fingers along Colt’s head. “I’m fine, buddy. Lay down.” And Colt obeys. “Better?”

     “I have to get to class, Dean,” Lisa says, leaning in for another kiss. “I’ll see you at that party this weekend though, right?”  
     “Always. You know me.”

     “Good. I’ll see you there.” And she’s gone.

     The rest of the day is uneventful; a blur of talking and writing and papers and of course there’s some goddamn freshman who just _has_ to ask him what the dog’s for. But then the second-to-last period comes around, and just as he’s getting ready to leave, he’s stopped.

     “Dean, I’d like to speak with you after the bell,” his teacher says, soft enough that Dean’s the only one who can hear. There’s a hand on his shoulder, one that Dean shrugs off.

     “But I’m supposed to leave early. I can’t wait until the bell.”

     “You can wait until after, I’ll write you a late pass.”

     Dean sighs and takes his things back out. Five minutes shouldn’t be such a big deal, but when it comes to the end of the day it just _is._ He doesn’t go back to work, though. Hell, he never works in this class. He spends the time doodling in the margins of his notebook. It’s more a journal than anything, filled with brief passages about the night where everything went to absolute crap. But Dean won’t call it a journal, he refuses.

     When finally the bell rings, the students in the room filter out. But Dean stays where he’s sitting, waits for the teacher to come to him. He’s nervous, and as much as he wants to hide it, a little bump from Colt’s nose tells otherwise.

     “What’s up? Can we make this fast? I got places to be,” Dean says, arms crossing over his chest.

     “Dean, you’re failing. Horribly.”

     “Am I? Great. Can I go?”

     “No, Dean. You need this class to graduate, and--”  
     “I’m not graduating.”

     “Dean.”

     “Yes?”

     The teacher sighs. “Dean, do you know Castiel Novak? I’ve spoken with him, and he agreed to tutor you. Here’s his phone number.”

     Dean groans, but he takes the number from the teacher and plugs it into his phone. He doesn’t really plan on calling, not without being forced to. Whether that’s going to be by his teacher, or someone else, Dean isn’t sure.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Dean was at his fourth session with his latest therapist. She was an older woman with short, curly hair, wearing glasses with round frames. She was sweet, but she talked slowly like Dean was a scared child.  _

_ Was he, though? She really seemed to think he was, but Dean didn’t agree. Fifteen years old wasn’t a  _ child _.  _

_ “Dean, how often do you have sex?” Like always, she was talking slow and gentle. She made it seem like if she said the wrong thing, Dean would break. Like he’d fall apart right there.  _

_ On the floor, Colt, almost a year old slept. His head was resting on Dean’s foot, always touching his handler somehow like the clingy little shit he was. Dean didn’t mind it, though. He never did. It was nice having something who was so tightly bonded to him, who cared so much about him that he’d do absolutely anything. And Colt would, it seemed. Colt would always be there for Dean.  _

_ “What? Why does that matter, creep?”  _

_ “I’m not asking to be creepy, Dean. But the way you’ve explained everything… it seems like you use sex as a way of coping with your past trauma.” _

_ Dean scoffed. “That ain’t true, lady. I just like gettin’ my dick wet.” But deep down, he had a feeling it  _ was _ true. He had a feeling she was right. _

_ And that’s exactly why he got up.  _

_ “Don’t count on seeing me next week.”  _

_Bobby was waiting for him in the room just outside the office, the walls lined with empty chairs. No wonder they were  empty-- the lady was a fucking freak! Who the hell spoke to a fifteen-year-old about his sex life?_ _  
__Bobby looked up, frowned. “Not this one?”_

_ “Not this one.” _

***

 

Dean’s back is pressed against the door to the janitor’s closet. He has his lips on some girl’s, one whose name he hadn’t bothered to catch. She’s blonde, gorgeous, and has the nicest tits he’s had the pleasure of feeling in a while, and that’s all that matters. 

At some point, she drops to her knees and Dean’s only vaguely aware of it at first. But then his jeans are around his ankles, her hand is on him, her  _ mouth  _ is on him, and she’s all he can think about. His hands are in his hair, tangled with the soft, blonde strands. Lisa might not be happy to hear about this, but it doesn’t matter what she thinks, because they  _ aren’t _ a thing. 

By the time he’s zipping up his jeans and fixing his hair, it’s fifteen minutes past the last bell, and he knows Sam isn’t going to be pleased. A silent curse, one last kiss and Dean’s peeking out the door to make sure there’s nobody coming. When he’s certain they’re in the clear, he calls Colt over, picks up his leash and slips out. He isn’t sure when the girl does, but he assumes she lags behind by a few minutes.

Already waiting by the car, leaning up against it because it’s still  _ locked, _ is Sam, and Sam definitely doesn’t look happy. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s tapping his foot like a parent ready to scold his child. And in a way, he almost  _ is _ like Dean’s parent sometimes. As much as Dean had raised Sam, Sam had also raised him some. He was the one responsibility (before Colt, of course) that Dean didn’t mind having; Sam kept his brother on the right path as best as he could.

And when Sam pushes upright, straightens out to try and make himself as tall as he can, Dean knows what’s coming. 

“Where the hell were you, Dean?” the kid asks, motioning towards the car. “The Impala’s locked, and I’ve been standing here like some kind of idiot for--”

“None of your business, Sammy,” Dean grunts, unlocks the car and lets his dog in. 

“You were off with some girl, weren’t you?”

“Sam, I--”

“You were! Seriously, Dean?”

“I needed stress relief, okay?! I’m stressed! I needed it.”

Sam pauses, frowns. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Obviously it’s something, De. Can’t you tell me?” There’s concern in his voice, worry. For Dean, being stressed can mean something drastic or something mundane, but regardless, it always worries Sam. 

A sigh, and Dean shakes his head ‘no’. He tries to get into the car, but there’s a hand on his arm that stops him and he whips around to look at Sam. “I’m failing a class and I need a tutor, okay? Christ, Sam. Leave me the fuck alone.” 

Sam pauses, bites back a laugh. “That’s it? That’s all this is about? De, that isn’t a big deal. You know that, right? So many people need tutors.” 

Dean groans, shakes Sam’s hand off of him, and gets into the car. “He wants that dweeb Novak to tutor me.”

“Novak?”

“Yeah, Castiel. Comes from a family of bible bangers, has like twelve brothers and a hot sister. I think I slept with her once or twice. Anyway, that guy.” 

“Sounds like you know a lot about him. You obsessed or something?” Sam teases, giving Dean a shove, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Do you have the number in your phone? Give it to me.” 

“My phone or his number?”

“Your phone. Give it to me.”

“What? No! Why the hell do you want my-- hey! Give that back!”

There’s a grin on Sam’s face as he leans away, quickly typing something out before giving the phone back to Dean. And when Dean looks down at what Sam wrote, his heart stops. “You bitch!”

“Jerk.”

It’s a text, sent to one Castiel Novak of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a shorter chapter, but hopefully you enjoyed regardless of that :) as always, my tumblr is wincestjel and i am a slut for comments so feel free to leave me some feedback!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i'm a day late! totally forgot yesterday was wednesday :P

_ Dean sighed. This was the third session with his latest therapist, a man this time; younger and friendly but,  _ God, _ was he pushy. He skipped the small talk, went right into the deep stuff. _

_ What happened that night, in full detail? Dean always said he wasn’t sure, always pretended as though he couldn’t remember. He was young, after all; it made sense. But this therapist--his name Alex or Adam or Andrew, something with an ‘a’--seemed adamant on the fact that Dean  _ did _ remember; that the whole repression thing was just a story.  _

_ And of course, it was, but Dean wouldn’t admit that.  _

_ Fire, fire, fire. That was all he seemed to want to talk about that day. Fire, and how to deal with it. Fire, and how to overcome it. Fire, and-- _

_ “You can’t ever get over your fears if you refuse to face them, Dean.” _

_ A scoff and Dean rolled his eyes, shook his head.  _ Face  _ them? What was he supposed to do, stick his hand into a damn flame and let it burn? Become one of those performers who swallowed the stuff?  _

_ “You say that like I’m afraid of bugs, or heights. You say that like it  _ wasn’t _ something that traumatized me. It ain’t just a fear.”  _

_“You have to talk about it, Dean. That’s the point of therapy. Why are you here if you won’t talk?”_ _  
_ _“Because my uncle forced me to, jackass! I don’t_ want _to be here. I never wanted to be in therapy. I find the whole damn system corrupt!” Dean’s voice was raised, and he was leaning forward on the cheap old sofa, his hands thrown up in the air._

_ The therapist frowned, sighed, shook his head. “I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped, Dean. I’m sorry, I am.” A pause. “Do you know how many therapists it takes to change a lightbulb?” _

_“Is this some stupid joke to you?”_ _  
_ _“No, Dean. The lightbulb has to_ want _to change. Nothing can change if you’re so against this all.”_

_ And for once, Dean stayed through the full session. He didn’t talk much, just listened, listened to what the man had to say about taking the next step to get over his fear. But when he walked outside, when he saw Bobby sitting in the waiting room as always, Dean shook his head ‘no’. _

***

There’s a ringing, a sound that pierces through the silent classroom and right through Dean’s ears. The hand of fear is like  _ ice _ as it strikes through Dean’s heart, and suddenly, he’s frozen. The smell of smoke is thick, his throat and eyes burn as though the room’s full of it. But it isn’t. There’s something wet bumping his arm, but Dean can’t process what it is. Not until there’s a weight on his lap.

_ No _ , is all he can think, over and over.  _ No, no, no.  _

Then suddenly there’s a hand on his arm, hooked underneath it. He’s pulled up, tugged to his feet and that weight on his lap slides away. But the one on his shoulders doesn’t, and as he walks out he can’t  _ think. _ Hell, he can hardly  _ see.  _ He’s being led away from the crowd, and when whoever had been guiding him finally stops, Dean collapses to the floor, crumples to his knees.

_ The fire was a monster, reds and yellows and oranges; with tendrils of flame like gnashing teeth. It devoured, destroyed everything in its wake.  _

Dean’s shaking, his heart _thump, thump,_ _thumping_ in his chest so hard it might just break through his sternum. 

_ There was a scream, a name called out and Dean was confused,  _ terrified.  _ Where was everyone? What was happening?  _

There are tears in his eyes, his hands buried in thick fur and the weight is back in his lap. But nothing feels real. All he can hear is the  _ sound _ , which cracks open the silence of the lot, bounces off of the whispered conversations between students. And as though being pushed under water, he’s engulfed by the images of fire.

_ Suddenly, Dean’s lifted from his bed by a man he didn’t recognize. No, a woman. She was dressed in a thick, protective suit, one that Dean pounded his fists against over and over. He screamed, he cried, but she wouldn’t put him down. Where was she taking him? Where did his bed go?  _

Across the lot, unbeknownst to Dean, there’s someone who has taken notice. And how could he not, when Dean Winchester, notorious for his ‘devil may care’ attitude, is crying and shaking and mumbling nonsense to himself? 

Something wet against his face, and the fire begins to fade.   
Something cool pushing against Dean’s hands, and the fire is gone. 

It’s Colt; he has himself planted in Dean’s lap and he’s fervently licking his handler’s face, shoving his nose into his hands. Dean, still shaking and mumbling to himself, wraps his arms around the dog’s neck and buries his face in the thick fur there, lets out a sob, and holds his dog close. Knowing Dean’s been pulled from the visions of his past, Colt settles, his rushed licking steadied to a slower pace, to the occasional nose bump. 

And when he’s fully out of it, Dean looks up, his heart pounding, his chest  _ aching.  _ Blue meets green, and that pounding heart stops dead. Someone  _ saw, _ was still watching. And that someone is none other than  _ Castiel Novak _ . What a damn good first impression, huh? 

Looking up, Dean wipes his eyes, shakes his head and pulls his dog closer. Castiel is coming towards him, a look on his face. Dean’s expecting some kind of ridicule, some kind of teasing, but no. All he can see is concern etched across Castiel’s face. 

“What do you want?” Dean snaps when the other is close enough to hear, when he starts to crouch down. 

“Are you--?”

“Fine.” 

“You’re Dean.”

“Thanks, I had no idea,” Dean grumbles. 

Castiel frowns. 

“What do you want?” Dean repeats, a bit more forceful this time. 

“I got your text.”   
“Yeah, well, ignore it. I don’t give a damn about that class, or graduating, or getting my grades up or anything else. And I’m _really_ not in the mood to talk right now.”   
Dean feels vulnerable, and more than anything he wants to retreat back into himself and hide. He doesn’t want to have a conversation with anyone, let alone this jackass, and he _especially_ doesn’t want to be questioned about what just happened and whether or not he’s okay. 

“Why did you text me, then?”

“That was Sam.”

A pause. “What’s his name?”

“Who, Sam? I just told you. It’s Sam. Don’t you know English?”

Castiel frowns. “I meant your dog.”

And then Dean sits up a little straighter, always happy to brag about his pride and joy. “Colt,” he says, a hand running down the shepherd’s back. 

“Like a baby horse?” Castiel asks, and then he reaches out to let Colt sniff him. 

Almost instantly, Dean slaps his hand away, a split-second reaction he’s developed over the years. “No, like the  _ gun _ . And don’t touch my dog.” 

Castiel frowns and pulls his hand back, holding it to his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“Seriously? Then you might just be the only goddamn person in this school who doesn’t know.” Tugging Colt closer to himself, Dean presses his face into the dog’s back. “You can leave now, Cas.” 

With a sigh, Castiel sits down across from Dean, his legs crossed and his hands in his lap. “I won’t tell anybody about that,” he says, his voice soft.

“About what?”

“Your p--” 

“Shut up. Don’t call it that.”

“I didn’t call it anything.” 

“You were about to say panic attack.”

With a sigh, Castiel shakes his head. “Are you always this difficult?”

Face still buried in Colt’s fur, Dean cracks a little smile, one he keeps hidden. “Yep. Can you leave me alone now?” 

“Not until you and I schedule a time to meet up. I don’t care how much you do or don’t care about this class, I want to help you.”   
Dean groans, lifts his head. “I have better things to do.”

“Oh, do you? Like what?” 

Dean pauses. He doesn’t have an answer for that, because other than the occasional party and the far  _ less _ occasional hookup, he really doesn’t do much. Sure, he helps Bobby out in the shop sometimes, but that schedule is totally up to him. 

“Got something to go to this weekend.”

“And every other day?”

Dean stays quiet, because for some ungodly reason he can’t think of a damn thing to say. 

“That’s what I thought. How about this Thursday, meet me at the library at three?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “What don’t you get about  _ no,  _ Cas?”

“Call me stubborn, but I won’t let you turn this down. Do you realize how lucky you are to have this opportunity?”

“I don’t  _ feel _ lucky.” 

Dean’s referencing more than just the tutoring sessions, but Castiel doesn’t need to know that. Hell, he doesn’t need to know anything. He doesn’t even need to know Colt’s  _ name _ . 

“Well, you are. Please, Dean. Just give this a chance. You have potential.”

“How the hell would you know that? You don’t know a damn thing about me,  _ Cas,” _ Dean spits the name like it’s poison, his eyes narrowing. 

If Dean is anything, it’s a  _ waste _ of potential. Sure, maybe that four-year-old boy had a lot, but all of it was lost the day of that  _ godforsaken fire. _

It seems like Dean lost just about everything that day.


	4. Chapter 4

_ “Why don’t we talk about your parents?” was the first thing Dean was asked during a session. At just the mention of them, his heart began to race and nausea pooled in his stomach. _

_ “No. Why don’t we talk about something else?  _ Anything _ else?” he replied, and it’s supposed to sound snarky but  _ God _ , it just sounded like he was pleading with the woman. And perhaps he was.  _

_ “Because you avoid the topic every time it’s brought up. You can’t just refuse to talk about them.” _

_ “Yes I can. And I’m going to.” _

_ And that time, when he stormed out he didn’t even bother stopping in the waiting room to tell Bobby he needed a new therapist. He was on the verge of tears and didn’t want to pause, to risk someone seeing him cry. So, he just kept walking, right out to the car. And he never looked back.  _

_ *** _

 

Dean sighs. He’s still coming down from the panic, his body still aching, and his heart has picked up that rapid, painful pace once again. His palms are damp, and Dean’s vaguely aware of that as he rubs them on his denim-clad thighs. Colt gives his face one last lick, and whether it’s for good measure or because he enjoys the salty taste, Dean isn’t sure. He wants to think it’s the former. 

And then, Dean realizes, it isn’t the panic that has his heart racing and his palms sweating. It’s the intense way he’s being stared at, as though Castiel can see straight through his eyes and to the deepest, darkest parts of his soul. Dean doesn’t like that feeling, like he’s being picked apart with a gaze alone, but he can’t look away. Cas’s eyes are a shade of cerulean so magnificent, fringed with dark lashes and pale skin that only make them stand out more. And suddenly, Dean’s blushing. He looks away but just as he does, realizes that Castiel’s lips are moving, that he was saying something. Castiel seems to notice that Dean hasn’t picked up on his sentence at all; for now he’s frowning and his features soften into a look of concern. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, gentle, as though he’s almost  _ scared _ Dean might snap again. 

And snap Dean does. “I already told you, man. I’m  _ fine. _ ” The blush that had been creeping up his face now retreats until it’s faded to nothing. “Stop asking.”

“I’m concerned, is all. I did just witness your…” Castiel trails off because of the daggers being shot at him, courtesy of Dean. He seems to think over his words carefully before finally he finishes his sentence. “Episode?” 

“Don’t call it that, either. Don’t call it anything,” Dean says, and he can practically see Castiel wilt. 

“Right. I won’t. But—“ 

“And you seriously think  _ now _ is the time to nag me about tutoring, Cas?” 

“I understand you aren’t feeling your best right now—“ 

“So, what? No means no, number one rule of consent. I say no, you leave me alone.  _ No. _ ” 

“Dean, please. I just want to—“ 

“No!”

“Stop interrupting me,” Castiel says, and there’s a shift in the air between them.

Dean smirks. “Make me.”

When Castiel’s expression changes, Dean half expects the guy to kiss him, and half expects a slap across the face. He isn’t met with either one, and he’s thankful for that because he really isn’t sure which would have been worse. No, there’s no kiss and there’s no slap, but a heavy sigh does slip past Castiel’s lips. 

“You are insufferable.”

“ _ You _ tried to touch my dog.”

They go back and forth, bicker for a few minutes before the words  _ all clear _ rise up and echo throughout the school yard. Dean doesn’t trust himself to stand, and Castiel seems to pick up on this because after he pushes himself up off the ground, he extends a hand to Dean. 

Stubbornly, Dean shoves it out of his way. “I’m okay, Colt,” he says to his dog, completely ignoring Castiel, and the dog moves off of him. After a nod of Dean’s head, Colt stands. Dean reaches out for the handle clipped onto Colt’s vest, gives a mumble of, “forward” and the dog obeys. He pulls forward, and using the momentum from the pull, Dean’s able to stand up without falling right back down. 

“We aren’t finished with this, Dean. I’ll be texting you later.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t.”

But Castiel is already gone, walking off with his back to Dean and his dog. Before Dean even looks away, somebody taps his shoulder. He whips around, face-to-face with one of his teachers, and relaxes once he recognizes her. She’s one of the few he actually does like. 

“I led you back here. I figured you would be more comfortable alone with your dog than you would be among the crowd.”

“I was, thanks,” he mumbles, lacking his usual confident air. Without another word, he walks away with his shoulders slumped, head ducked, and mind racing with the fear that Castiel isn’t the only one who saw. Nobody needs to know the truth; nobody needs to see that Dean Winchester is secretly a coward who can’t handle something as simple as a fire drill, even if he  _ does _ have a good reason to be afraid. 

The rest of the day is fuzzy, just like Dean’s mind. He doesn’t pay attention during the rest of his classes, and there seems to be an unspoken agreement between Dean and his teachers. None of them bother him, none of them say a word as he tugs his journal out and just scribbles down nonsense. The end of the day eventually rolls around, and it feels like it’s been years since the drill when, in reality, it’s only been a few hours.

For once, Dean doesn’t let anything or any _ one _ distract him on his way to the Impala. He gets there even before Sam, dodging anyone who might try to strike up a conversation. Every look feels judgmental, like the eyes of his peers are a microscope and Dean’s a specimen to be examined. But the reality is that nobody sees him, not any more than usual, and nobody  _ cares _ as much as Dean thinks they do. Nobody ever does. 

He’s sitting in the car lost in thought when the Impala shifts and groans and there’s a scrawny kid beside him, worry written all over his features. What is it with everyone today and  _ worrying? _

“Save it, Sammy. I’m okay,” Dean says, and while his words start off harsh they quickly soften, as does his expression. “I am, I mean it. I have Colt to help.” 

Sam glances over at the dog, who is currently asleep on the back seat. His lips puff out just slightly with each exhale, his back foot is twitching, and his ears occasionally shift like he’s listening to something. A small smile on his face. Sam turns back to his brother. “He’s a good boy. You’re lucky you have him, De. I’m glad you eventually came around. You two… you’re like Batman and Robin. He’s Batman, though. You’re the sidekick.”

This earns a smile from Dean, and he shoves his brother gently. “Oh, shut up.” 

Comment about Dean being the sidekick aside, Sam is right. Dean knows he is. There was a time he refused a dog, a time where the absolute last thing he wanted was something so  _ obvious _ , so _ noticeable. _ It didn’t help that he wasn’t a fan of dogs to begin with. The absolute last thing Dean could imagine was having some mutt at his side wherever he went. The idea had been practically unfathomable.

But then there came a day when Dean, just fourteen and Sam only ten, had been out with his brother at a local arcade. A man walked in, a dog in tow, and Dean couldn’t refuse the look on Sam’s face when he  _ begged _ him to go say hello. It had been a long, hard conversation and the first time Dean really opened up to anyone. At the end of it, he was still hesitant, but no longer refused nearly as passionately. 

So that night, he went home and did some research. Some, being an understatement. He read for hours, scoured through _every_ _bit_ of information he could find on psychiatric service dogs. And at the end of it, Dean had come to a decision. That decision was Colt, something that would prove to be a damn good choice. 

“Dean? Are you listening?” Sam’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. 

“What? Yeah. Something about dinner, right?”

“No,” Sam sighs, brushing a mop of brunette from his eyes. “I asked if you heard back from Novak.”

Dean pauses, then glances down at his hands. “He watched me have a panic attack, then had the  _ audacity _ to try to pressure me into a tutoring session.”

“A panic attack? Dean, you said you were okay!”

“I’m always okay. And like I said, Colt helped me. Drop it. Please.” 

And Sam does. The rest of the drive home is silent, not a word from either brother. Dean’s grateful for that, because today’s been far longer than he ever could have imagined it to be. He’s antsy and on edge, and it seems as though no matter what he does, that feeling won’t go away. It’s when they get in the house that Dean finally breaks down. It happens so quickly that not even Colt notices until after it’s already started. 

The door’s hardly even shut when Dean drops to his knees, shaking and panting and, God, he can’t breathe. A sob rips through his body and he pounds a fist into the carpet, the impact sending shocks of pain up his wrist. This only spurs on the panic, and he’s sobbing, begging for a mom and dad who can’t come save him. 

Then Colt is there, wedging between Dean and the floor. He’s tucked against Dean’s body, his tail banging against Dean’s side. Dean’s hands shift from the carpet to the dog, and he wraps Colt up in his arms. He holds the dog as close as he can, cries into his fur. Colt lays there with him, keeps him safe. 

A few minutes later, Bobby’s there, kneeling down in front of Dean. 

“Sam told me there was a fire drill today,” he says, brushing fingers through Dean’s hair when the boy looks up at him. 

“They’re supposed—“ Dean cuts himself off, needing to catch his breath. “—supposed to tell me! They’re supposed to  _ tell _ me, dammit!” He goes on like that, repeating the words a few more times between his sobs and his cries for his parents. “I want ‘em back. It ain’t fair, I want ‘em back!”

Bobby sighs. Dean’s unpredictable when he gets like this. There are days he wants to be held, to be coddled. To be told that it’ll be alright. But those days don’t come often, and most days, he wants the opposite. He wants to be alone, a self-inflicted solitary confinement. He wants to lock himself in his room with no one but his dog, bang his fist into the wall and throw a chair. He wants to be where he knows not a soul will judge him, because Colt never could. The dog doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, an aggressive hair anywhere to be found. 

But today isn’t one of those days where Dean’s first instinct is to shut himself away. Instead, he throws himself into Bobby’s arms and he’s crying. He’s crying harder than he has in what feels like forever, and at this point, a broken rib once this was over with wouldn’t come as a shock. His head hurts, his body hurts, and his arms are so goddamn tight around his surrogate father he’s sure the man is suffocating. 

And then, almost as quickly as it started it ends. The tears stop, the sobs cease. Dean’s silent as his arms return to his sides and he’s stiff as a board. He pulls away. 

He pushes past Bobby, past Sam, doesn’t even acknowledge the dog trotting behind him. He finally makes it to the safety of his room and behind him, the door slams shut. Dean hardly flinches. He throws himself down onto the bed, his fist hitting a pillow, followed by a highly unsatisfying  _ thud _ . It isn’t enough. He needs  _ noise _ , he needs it to  _ hurt.  _ The wall is tempting; his fist pounding into it would feel a hell of a lot nicer than the damn pillow. Or perhaps his headboard. 

But Dean stops himself before he gets to that point. He doesn’t need any bruised knuckles or aching wrists. He needs-- 

“Colt,” he sighs. He’s suddenly fully aware of the dog laying beside him, the warmth of the dog’s body like a blanket. Dean rolls on his side, wraps his arms around the dog, and buries his face in the thick ruff of fur around his neck. His eyes start to water and they burn, but he fights the tears off. He’s done enough crying for a day, a  _ year.  _ He doesn’t need to cry again for at least a week.  _ Grow up, Dean _ , rings through his head.  _ Be a man. _

He sniffs hard, kisses his dog, and just stays there a minute, feeling Colt’s body move as he breathes. Up and down, up and down. The rhythm is steady, calming, and Dean just focuses on that. Up and down, up and down. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He follows Colt’s rhythm until, eventually, Dean’s calm as well. And slowly, the world fades to black. 

_ The other kids were grinning. Not Dean, though. Dean was staring straight into the audience, a darkness behind his green eyes. He wasn’t like the other children, not anymore. He never would be.  _

_ For, in the audience, their parents all sat with their faces just as bright, their smiles just as wide. Dean’s were nowhere to be found. As the other kids walked, there were entire  _ groups _ there, calling their names. Parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents-- you name it, they were there. But for Dean? The only ones sat in the crowd for Dean were Bobby and Sam.  _

_ And as he heard his name called, an over-enthusiastic ‘Dean Winchester’, he stood. He marched across the stage stiff as a soldier, emotionless as a robot. Until he reached the teacher at the end.  _

_ He looked to the crowd once again, almost expecting to see them there. But they weren’t, and that was when hell broke loose. A sheet of paper was held out towards Dean, but he shoved it away, tears filling his bright eyes. Bobby was on his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough. Dean was crying. _

_ But he wasn’t  _ just _ crying. What started out as simply tears quickly became a full-blown attack, escalating to screams and cries and Dean crumpling the stupid piece of paper in his tiny fists. He was hardly aware of it as he was being swept up off the stage, his back patted and his face tucked into a neck. It was Bobby, holding him and carrying him out, one hand gripping Dean and the other pushing the stroller that held Sam. There were whispers from the crowd, and a few of the other kids were scared; one even cried. But Dean didn’t care. _

_ The fit didn’t stop when they were outside, not when Bobby was talking to him and trying to calm him down, not when he was being held or when he was left alone. No, he didn’t calm down until tiny arms reached out from the safety of a stroller, until an old teddy bear was being thrust in his direction. He hugged it tight, cradled it close and clung to it like it was  _ them. 

And that was when he shot up, sweating and breathing hard with a dog finally settling back down beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again that i'm a day late! yesterday was a little crazy, and i didn't have the chance to sit down and post. as always, hope you enjoyed :D  
> also, question for y'all. do you prefer longer or shorter chapters? i'm currently working on one that i can end where it is and have it be a few hundred words shorter than my average, or i can continue it and have it be a bit longer (not sure by how much, though). i haven't been able to decide which to do, so i figured i'd ask here! thoughts?

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first real attempt at a chaptered fic, so fingers crossed it goes to plan! hope you enjoyed :D
> 
> i'll also be posting updates on tumblr (url is the same as my username here, @wincestjel), so if you'd prefer to read there check that out. 
> 
> i'm a comment whore so. any and all comments are very much appreciated hkds


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